


Stop Saving Me

by Allowisp



Series: Stop Saving Me [1]
Category: Heavy Rain
Genre: Gen, Guilt, Suicide Attempt, all because agent does take ethan’s hand in the interrogation scene, alternative helpless ending, spoilers for many possible endings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 23:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7912156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allowisp/pseuds/Allowisp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ethan Mars tries to kill himself in police custody. Norman Jayden intervenes.</p><p>Or--A bereaved father and the profiler from nowhere learn the following lesson: you don't always get the ending that you want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop Saving Me

**Author's Note:**

> My inspiration for this story was my cousin, who long ago saved a prisoner from hanging in a cell even though that person did not want to be saved. L---, you are my heroine for many reasons, and I have a problem with anybody who has a problem with you or your wife.
> 
> The leadup to this alternative Helpless ending includes the following:  
> “Kiss” option is chosen in the motel.  
> Ethan Mars fails only the Shark trial. He makes it to the warehouse.  
> Norman Jayden fights Scott Shelby, who falls to his death.  
> Ethan Mars can’t get the grate open before Shaun drowns.  
> Ethan Mars is held for questioning about his actions during the search for Shaun.

**Stop Saving Me**

Norman Jayden sat down across from Ethan Mars. He wasn’t a goddamn lawyer, and Philly PD hadn’t even scheduled a goddamn trial, but whatever the FBI wanted to call it, the testimony he had to get out of Mars would decide his guilt or innocence eventually in the eyes of a jury.

He remembered Ethan’s expression the last time they talked like this, back when Shaun Mars was still alive. So earnest and desperate. And now… Were the surgeons absolutely sure they hadn’t left any lead bullets inside him? For the second time since their nightmare began, Norman reached out and took Ethan’s uninjured right hand. The chain on Ethan’s handcuffs jingled where it bound both his wrists to the table. Norman clicked his tongue. “Don’t think we need these, do we.” He reached in his pocket with his other hand for the key.

Ethan clenched his hand around Norman’s. Hard. Bones creaked. The guard in the corner drew his gun.

“Stop!” Norman threw out his arm. “Get out, man. Just get out. I don’t need your help. It’s all right.”

“Detective Blake said—”

“Fuck Blake! Gimme five minutes. Okay? Gimme five minutes alone with him. The camera's on, ain't it? Thank you.”

Mars made a choking sound. His head hung, and his grip loosened. They were as alone as they could be surrounded by one way glass and video surveillance.

“Hey. Look at me.” Norman tried to catch Mars’s eyes. “I’m going to teach you how to give a credible testimony. I’ve done it hundreds of times. It’s not that hard. We’re gonna get you out of this.”

“I told you, I did it. I killed my son.”

“Come on. Don’t lie to me.”

Mars pulled his hand away. “I’m not lying.”

“Then look at me. What do you mean, you killed your son?”

“It’s all my fault. I should never have taken my eyes off of him. Jason and Shaun are both dead because of me. It wasn’t the car. It wasn’t the Origami Killer. They’re gone because I’m a horrible father.”

Sometimes you had to let them wallow in the guilt, and sometimes you had to pull them out of it. Sometimes Norman wished he had something on the outside anchoring his own mind. “Settle down for me, Ethan. Why don’t you take a deep breath.”

“I’m just telling you the truth.”

“Ethan, I know you must be going through hell, and believe me, I’m sorry. I wish you weren’t in this position right now, but Blake set up a lot of forms and red tape back when he thought you were the killer. We got to clear that mess up before you can go. Give me something, okay? Anything. We’ve got video of your statement from the last time we brought you in during the case. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“I… I talked to you about Shaun. And you believed me.”

“Yeah. I believed you, Ethan. I never thought you were our guy. I’ve been doing this a real long time, and I never liked you for the Origami Killer. You believe me when I say I want to help you?”

Ethan nodded.

“Then please stop saying you killed your son. Scott Shelby did that. You can’t blame yourself for his crimes. If you do that, it’s not just unfair to you, Ethan. It’s unfair to Shaun. You need to let the real killer take the blame. Scott Shelby’s dead, Ethan. He can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

“Grace won’t even look at me.”

“Everyone handles these situations differently. Ethan, I’m told you refused to see Madison. Why don’t you tell me about that?” But the ensuing wall of silence made it clear Ethan wouldn’t. Norman sighed. “How about I talk to the guys? We’ll keep a watch on you, but you can go home. Maybe it’ll do you some good.”

“I can’t go back to that house without him.”

“Could you stay with a friend?”

“No. Just leave me alone. I deserve to die for this.”

“You don’t. It’s not your fault. There’s nothing more you could have done.”

“If I’d been able to kill that man…”

“What about the man, Ethan?”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re a good FBI agent, Mr. Jayden. But you’re not going to get me to say I’m not a killer.”

“Please don’t call me Mr. It freaks me out when people do that who are older than I am. I’m not just here as an agent, Ethan. I’m here because I think you need a friend, and you’ve turned away damn near everybody else including counsel.”

“Then look at it the way I’m looking at it. The way I can’t stop looking at it. I made a choice in that room. I condemned my son to die so one piece of shit old man could live. What kind of father am I? I chose a stranger and a quick stupid fuck… when I could have, when I could have—”

“You don’t get to take responsibility for all of this. Some problems are just too big. They’re out of our control.”

“You’d hate me too if you knew. How could I even think about that when Shaun was drowning in the rain? How could I waste any time?”

“Were you and Madison involved? We know she was at the motel. Is that what this is about?”

“We weren't. It just happened. I needed… something. I thought I felt horrible, but that was nothing like I’m feeling now.”

Norman slammed his fist on the table. “Get it through your head, Mars! This isn’t your fault.”

“Then whose fault is it? You can’t tell me there’s no reason.”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Bad things happen to good people for no fucking reason at all. That’s the first thing you learn in my job. Sure, you can trace it back to the killer’s shitty childhood. But what made Shelby’s father a drunk, and negligent, and what came before that? Why did the rain fall? You can ask those questions forever. You can’t ever get to the origin. All you can do is get justice for Shaun. That means we punish the guilty _and_ protect the innocent. You ready to help me with the second half of that?”

“He used to come over for the evening and watch TV and not talk to me. Maybe I wasn’t ever the father he needed.”

“I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now. But maybe for once stop thinking about the blame. That’s my job, Ethan. I already made sure the right person paid, but it’s just as important that the wrong people don’t.”

“I never should have taken my eyes off of him. And then I did it again.”

“Ethan, stop. It’s not your fault.”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, Agent—”

“Norman. My first name’s Norman.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“I’m not going to sit back and watch you pay for crimes you didn’t commit.”

“But it is my fault. I feel like that’d be right, you know? Crimes I didn’t commit? It’s about time I paid for what I didn’t do. What I wasn’t able to do for my boys.”

“Is that what you want? You want to put yourself in the system and do Scott Shelby’s time?” Norman decided he preferred interrogations where the suspect was spitting at him. He might not technically be at the table as an agent, but he wasn’t a therapist, either, and anyway he still wasn’t sure what he was if he dropped the _FBI_ part off of _Norman Jayden, FBI_. “Look, it’s probably never going to make sense. Shaun’s life, _or_ his death.” There was no sense underwriting real life like ARI’s flawless computer code. “Mother fucking Theresa. Jesus. Ethan, would it kill you to stop acting now? I’ll come back tomorrow. You probably won’t want to talk to me, but I’m begging ya, at least talk to a lawyer.” He paced. The room was too small. Sand dunes and waterfalls flickered at the edges of his vision. “You’ve got to be clear about your time frames. Okay? Down to the second. And there’s one thing I want you to say over and over again: you had no choice. Oh, and you were afraid. You were afraid for your life. You were afraid for your son. You felt overwhelmed by the situation. You seriously can’t say all that too many times. I’ll present an analysis to back you up.”

“I thought I was supposed to tell the truth.”

“No, you tell them the truth they want to hear. That’s how our system works. Just trust me. I’ll get you out of this. Remember, you need a clean shave. If they won’t let you hold a razor, then I’ll do it myself. And I’ll bring you in a suit as soon as we get the trial day.” Somehow these ordeals always began and ended with Norman fixing somebody else’s tie. He ought to ask for a bonus. He deserved incentive pay for that particular skill, just like he received for his forensics and tactical driving.

Ethan winced. “Agent… uh, Norman, I can’t do this. I don’t want to talk. I’m not going to give a statement.”

Norman took a deep breath. He focused on unclenching his fists as he let it out again.

Ethan kept talking. “You don’t have to come back or check on me anymore. But if you do, whatever happens, it’s not you. You couldn’t have been any better for me or Shaun. Nobody could have done a better job. It was… it was me. It’s all my fault.”

“You do know they won’t kill you, right? You’ll just be making it so they can’t set you free.”

Ethan’s lips stretched in a strange, empty smile. “You never know.”

Somehow that smile was the last straw for Norman. It annoyed him beyond all reason. “Oh, yeah?” he snapped. “Fine. Have it your way. I can see I’m not helping here. But I will be back, Ethan. I swear. I’m not letting you do this to yourself this easy.”

Ethan finally looked up just before Norman stormed out. Something passed between them then in the moment before Norman slammed the door that made him wish he could take Tripto again.

He only needed a quick sniff. Just this once. He wouldn’t do it again. His supervisor might even have sent some to the lab. It was medicinal. Not even technically illegal. That made it okay, didn’t it? They said it was right. The system made it right.

He called D.C. and then hung up while the phone was still ringing.

He’d flushed his drugs. He could do this, damn it. ARI wouldn’t kill him all by herself, but an overdose would, and the Tripto had been exerting less and less effect per use at the time he quit. Tolerance was a bitch. Sometimes Norman speculated ARI helped him adapt to foreign substances. Was she trying to kill him, forcing him deeper into his habit, pushing to make him hers until he had nothing left? Would there come a day when he couldn't leave her world?

It was getting to where reality felt fake. Maybe that was all because of ARI, or maybe it was worse because Norman was missing something. He'd never describe people like him that way, and rationally he knew there was nothing wrong with how he was, but he couldn't help but think that if he were normal this existential shit wouldn't get to him.

Other people had roots. They knew how to connect. They didn't intrude like aliens. They knew how to be something to somebody, and more importantly they knew how to feel when somebody was something to them. They spoke the same language. What they wanted had names. And here Norman was with an empty space in him and an aimless desire that didn't look like the desire most people had.

Norman verified Ethan’s schedule with the precinct before he left. Ethan would spend the night in a holding cell. Norman got the number so he could drop by tomorrow and take Ethan to the courthouse. It always looked better if a third party did that instead of the local police. If they were lucky Ethan would take Norman’s advice, but what Norman judged more likely was that Ethan would try to confess again. At that point, who knew what the hell would happen. Ethan was making it bureaucratically impossible for the police to turn him loose. Probably it wouldn’t end until they put him through a federal court hearing. Just reserving a date for that could take months.

Norman drove back to his hotel through the rain that he could swear was black as tar, hard as hail, and utterly opaque. He collapsed on his bed in his hotel room and flipped through his case files in ARI, reviewing all the mistakes he made, vowing to avoid them next time. Next time he had to save the kid. Next time he needed to leave at least one parent with something to live for. God, Ethan Mars looked terrible at the end of all this. He looked like a dead man walking.

An uncomfortable pricking began inside Norman’s sternum. At first he thought it was ARI messing with his senses, or maybe cravings for Tripto. But the more he thought about Ethan Mars the stronger it got. His heart started pounding. He’d been here before. When had he been here before? His instincts were trying to tell him something. A mistake was coming. There was something he missed. The feeling started this time when…

 _Something to live for_.

Ethan believed he had nothing to live for. Norman told Ethan he wouldn’t die in prison. Ethan had smiled and said, _You never know_.

What kind of profiler missed those warning signs?

He was out the door and in the car so fast he forgot his credentials. He didn’t go back for them. He dialed the police station and then started the car. He told them to put Ethan on suicide watch.

To Norman’s relief, he already had been. The sergeant just checked on him. Ethan Mars was fine.

So Norman hung up, slowed down, and stopped doing 95 on the freeway. He still wanted to talk to Ethan. It was just that, well, for a second there… His hands started to shake on the wheel as adrenaline drained from his system. He pulled into the station parking lot just in time, parked across three spaces, leaned back in his seat, and succumbed to a one minute long hysterical breakdown in which he couldn’t stop laughter that was barely audible.

He entered the bullpen wiping tears from his eyes, and he got the sergeant to give him the holding keys so he could check on Ethan Mars. It was time anyway, the end of the current fifteen minutes. He strolled leisurely. He felt pretty good again. He was going to open up the door, crack a smile, and Ethan and he would have a good laugh about this.

He got to Ethan’s door and stopped for a moment, confused. The door had a thick viewport window, but all Norman saw through it was water. Water splattering against glass from the inside like rain against Norman’s windshield in the car.

Holy shit.

Norman jammed the keys into the lock and burst into the cell. Ethan hung from a noose made out of his own coat from the emergency sprinkler system. His hands clenched and his legs twitched uselessly a foot and a half above the cement floor. The sprinkler had broken from his weight, and water sprayed everywhere like Ethan and Norman’s own private storm. Ethan’s eyes and veins bulged. Everything shone like reptile skin in the moisture and harsh incandescent light.

“Help!” shouted Norman. He bellowed as loud as he could as he rushed forward, nearly slipped, and grabbed Ethan’s legs. Ethan kicked him off. Norman growled and grabbed him again, tighter. Held him higher. He couldn’t fail again. “Help, hanging! Get me some help! Anyone, help! Blake, you son of a bitch, do something useful for once in your life and—” He broke off, gagging. Some of the water had got in his mouth and went down the wrong pipe. “Anyone, please help! Prisoner suicide! This is Agent Norman Jayden of the FBI! _ETHAN MARS I SWEAR YOU SON OF A BITCH IF YOU DIE I WILL BRING YOU BACK YOU HEAR ME—”_

He held Ethan up alone like that and yelled for fifteen minutes as his suit turned into a heavy wet blanket before the sergeant came by for Ethan’s next scheduled suicide watch check. No one had heard Norman until that point. Norman held Ethan five more minutes so the police could safely cut him down. After that Norman personally dragged Ethan out of the flooding room into the hall and checked his breathing, listened for water in his lungs. It was then that he became aware Ethan was attempting to speak.

“I… just want to die,” he whispered, weak, against Norman’s cheek. “I can’t even do that right.”

Norman bowed his head. He rested his forehead against Ethan’s clammy, feverish temple and fisted his hands in Ethan’s loose undershirt. “Shut up. Just shut up.”

“Oh my god.” Ethan turned his head. He touched the bruise on Norman’s face. Several blood vessels had burst in his eyes, turning his whites red, but his irises focused on what he’d done when he kicked. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He coughed and he coughed, again and again. Bruising swelled up his own neck.

Norman tried to hold him still, kept him from sitting up. “Like hell you didn’t. You’re pissed off at me.”

“I’m not, I swear. I don’t blame you. It was me. Why do I always screw everything up?” Ethan was trying to shake his head. No, thought Norman, not allowed. He placed his hands against the sides of Ethan’s head, stared into the other man’s bleeding eyes, and dared him to move.

If Ethan could talk that much and blame himself, Norman must have walked in right after he stepped off the bed. Minimal damage. Were those guys over there with the AED paramedics? Finally. They were saying so, too, saying Ethan was lucky. Wait, no. What were they saying?

“… deserves a medal, captain.”

“Oh, no. He’s not one of mine. That’s the FBI profiler.”

“Well, whoever he works for had better get the candy ready.”

Several voices murmured agreement. Then Norman was getting pats on the back. It hurt. Faces clustered around him.

“Nice job, man.”

“You’re a hero.”

“Valor Medal for sure.”

“Does the FBI even do that?”

“They call it the Star or something.”

But all Norman could look at was the bruising on Ethan’s neck. He couldn’t stop brushing the edges of it with his thumbs, thinking about how he had almost been too late. How Ethan had looked hanging and kicking above the ground in a manmade torrential rain. How it felt fighting Ethan as he tried to take away his own life. Fifteen minutes. Somebody should revise suicide watch policy. Ethan could have died between one check and the next. Wasn’t there a version for continuous watch? Why hadn’t he predicted this and asked for that?

And here he was acting as stupid as Ethan, attempting to blame himself.

There was a bit more shuffling around and clattering of equipment. And then, of all possible people, Detective Blake appeared in Norman’s field of vision. “Hey, kid,” he said. “You did good. Now get up. Let the busboys do their job.”

Norman finally noticed two new people setting a stretcher down next to Ethan. They checked Ethan’s pulse and pulled Norman’s hands from where they’d migrated to: Ethan’s heart.

Norman resisted and began babbling facts. First responders, he thought. His training continued to assert itself. Always fill them in. He was so used to being the most useful guy on the scene that sometimes he didn’t know when to step away and let go. Better to be safe than sorry. “No, wait. I’m not done, Blake.” He took a deep breath. “I came in at six thirty-nine. I got the keys from the sergeant at the desk. I said take a break and I’ll do the six forty-five check. My name is Norman Jayden. I’m with the FBI. I think my wallet’s in my hotel room. It was six forty-three at the latest when I intervened.”

“Twenty-two minutes of trauma to his neck,” said Blake, with a glance at his gold retirement watch. “Been five to six since then with him lying here more or less stabilized. The fuck is wrong with you guys? My grandma drives faster than that.”

The paramedics ignored Blake’s jibe. They were probably used to it. One of them fitted a brace around Ethan’s neck. The other was checking Ethan’s extremities, especially the tips of his fingers, but wasn’t having an easy time of it. Ethan kept reaching for Norman, who felt irrationally guilty about leaning back from him, even to let EMS work.

Norman coughed and went on. His own throat felt pretty bad after all the screaming for help he did. “Sprinkler was going with his face right next to it. Check his lungs for fluid and fire retardant chemicals. I mean, it tasted kinda funny. Be really careful with his neck. He’s probably still a danger to himself. Ethan, don’t move. Wait a minute. I got to go with him. Hey, Blake, let me go. Get your hands off me.”

“You ungrateful jackass, I’m helping you up.” The old detective always smelled like alcohol. Originally Norman considered Blake unprofessional and cliché for that. Now he was starting to realize that was just what this city did to a man: it tore him up and made him into bad movies.

Norman almost fell down outside when Blake stopped supporting his weight. His thighs and shoulders throbbed with pain. He felt like he needed a stretcher himself by the time he climbed into the ambulance.

“Get your head examined while you’re there,” said Blake. “Crazy bastard. You don’t know when to quit.”

Norman turned around to snap an insult back at him, only to find Blake grinning and holding out a flask. So instead he accepted the drink for his parched strained throat and said, “Thanks, Blake.”

“You know what they’re gonna say about this suicide attempt.”

“It’s like new proof he’s guilty. I know.” Norman unscrewed the flask cap, took a swig, and handed it back. Scotch burned his throat on the way down. It was like he’d accidentally swallowed Listerine. No wonder Blake was such a sourpuss if his insides were full of this.

“No, actually. It’s gonna look pretty good because they can’t deny a psych eval. You’re good, kid, but you’re still too soft on him. Let’s see if he can BS the shrink who made me sit on my ass for a week after I responded to a home invasion as a rookie and shot the robber through a window.”

“When you were a rookie? He ain’t died of old age?”

“Shut up, Jayden.” Blake scowled. “Hey, look. I know you think I’m the bad guy here, but I can admit it when I’m wrong.”

“That’s pretty big of ya, Blake. Ready to admit you shouldn’t be carrying that flask while you’re working?”

“Fuck you. Call the cops.”

The last paramedic climbed in. They slammed the ambulance door shut on Blake’s grumpy, drawn face. Norman might actually miss him once all this was over. He just had to figure out whether Blake really was the social equivalent of a piece of sandpaper, or simply an acquired taste. Like scotch.

###

“I should have called 911,” Norman growled. He buried his head in his hands.

“You were inside a police station,” said Blake, “and you had your hands full. Don’t be an idiot.”

Blake had come in while Norman was getting checked out. He sipped coffee that smelled like sewage and prattled on while the nurses made Norman squirm. Does this hurt, they would ask, as Blake would suggest: You feds should use a better gun or at least a buddy system. Then Norman would say: That’s what I got you for ain’t it. And then the nurse would say, What? And Blake would say: Shut it while the nice lady’s trying to work. By the time they declared Norman free he was ready to tear his hair out. Or Blake’s. But that would get them thrown out. So instead he stole what was left of Blake’s coffee right out of his hand and chugged it, and Blake said: I can’t believe you just did that. And Norman said: Me neither, who knows where your mouth has been.

Now they were in the lobby, casually witnessing the struggle of Philadelphia’s uninsured. Norman had been fussed over for a bump on the cheek while children without documents vomited into the fake plant in the far corner. Must be something in the water, Norman thought. He raised his eyes just as a guy in scrubs approached him. Norman asked, “How is he?”

The nurse frowned. “Are either one of you Grace Mars?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” snapped Blake, as Norman shook his head.

“I’m sorry, but in cases like this we only let family—”

“She’s not his family,” said Blake. “They’re divorced.”

The nurse glanced down. “Paperwork says separated.”

“Well, then it’s not up to date. She left him and there were legal fees and shit. I’m a cop. I dug into this.”

“You’re from the police? Do you need to ask him some questions?”

Well, that was as much of an in as they were going to get. “Yes,” said Norman. “We need to go in and ask him some questions.”

“Well, he’s conscious,” said the nurse. “Be quick. He’s going to need his rest. Follow me.”

He turned and led them through a set of double doors, and then down a hallway that smelled of dead flowers and antiseptic. They were a bit behind and there was enough background noise, so Norman leaned toward Blake and hissed, “Did you just help me lie to medical?”

Blake rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I did. Call the cops.”

The nurse stopped outside an open door. “Here we are.”

Blake glanced inside, nodded, then glanced down at his watch. “Well, would you look at that. I just got off shift. Hope you can handle this by yourself, kid.”

You are so full of shit, thought Norman, and I’m beginning to like you for it. He stepped inside the room, where a rather swollen-faced Ethan lay in the bed. He was restrained by thick leather straps at the wrists.

“Uh, hey,” said Norman. “It’s me, Ethan. Special Agent… uh, Norman Jayden.” He patted absently at his breast pocket where ordinarily he kept his flipbook of credentials. “You awake?”

Ethan’s eyes fluttered open. Well, as open as they could get with his face puffed up like that. It reminded Norman of that one internet gif where a dog got stung in the snout by a bumble bee. Ethan tried to sit up and speak, but he started coughing and fell back.

Norman was already at his side. “Oh no you don’t,” he said. He pressed his left hand against Ethan’s chest and set his right on Ethan’s forehead, making him lie back down. “What do you think you’re doing? Gonna try it again? Over my dead body, Ethan Mars.”

Ethan’s eyes gained that glassy second layer of a man about to lose the ability to hold back his tears. His throat worked again, maybe trying to whisper, but Norman moved his left hand’s fingers to Ethan’s lips. They stilled.

“Tell me later,” said Norman. “Promise me you’ll be around to talk to me later.”

One harsh blink. Ethan nodded. He looked at the chair in the corner, then back at Norman.

Norman sighed. He stayed.


End file.
